my eyes looked up into
Sally's face. She withdrew her arm, standing now beside him, altogether
apart.

"You made me feel queer," Sally went on. "Thought you were in a faint or
something. Are you ill? Oh, say something, say _something_!"

All Sally's little thin body grew rigid as she spoke, for Gaga looked at
her with an air of distraction. He seemed not to recognise her. His eyes
were yellow and suffused, his mouth was open, his appearance that of one
who was hardly sane.

"I'm all right," came at last with an effort from his dry lips. "All
right, Sally. Only tired ... ever so tired." There followed a stiff
attempt to smile, and then his face was hidden once again by the long
hands. "My head's throbbing. It's like pincers in my head."

"Have you got any medicine?" she asked, quite moved by his weakness. "Go
out and get some. Quick! Get a chemist to...." The head was slowly
shaken. "You _ought_ to. You can't do anything if you're ill. Can't do
any work, or help Madam, or anything."

"Better presently," groaned Gaga. "That's ... that's all right, Sally.
Good little girl to be so kind. I've been up all night. She's very bad,
Sally; very bad. I've been up all night. Never mind; I'll be better
presently." He relapsed into his former comatose state, nerveless and
lethargic.

"You ought to get some sleep now. Go home to bed," urged Sally. "It's no
good trying to work if you're sick. Go home now." She did not know how
motherly, how caressing and wise, her voice had become. She was absorbed
in his state of exhaustion and passivity. "It's not right," she went on.
"You can't do any good. Get the doctor to give you something to make you
sleep."

Gaga groaned again, still lost in his own sensations.

"No good," he murmured. "I can't sleep. That's what's the matter.
Nothing does any good. I can't sleep--can't forget. Only sit here like
this, and feel stupid. Never mind, Sally. Good little girl." He spoke
thickly, like a man who has been drinking; but he was stupidly
unshakable. She could do nothing with him. Having withdrawn her arm she
could not again lay it upon his shoulders; but stood silent, feeling
helpless and on tiptoe, with a sense of strain. She was not miserable
nor anxious about him; she could almost hear her own voice, so nearly
had detachment come upon her. And with something like cramp in her
limbs, and paralysis of her ingenuity, she remained by his side, one
hand resting for support upon Gaga's desk. Prese